Blah Blah Blah

Adam's Top 10 Worst New Year's Eves...

10. A rock solid plan to lose my virginity turned into losing only my ride home, my wallet and my house keys.

9. Spent a romantic evening with my 10th grade girlfriend...and her new boyfriend. Apparently I was not made aware we broke up. He still writes though so I got that goin' for me...

8. Got chased through an abandoned shopping center by some nice gentlemen who kept referring to me as "cracker."

7. Stuck in a friend's basement party with 103 degree fever. I was hallucinating so badly at midnight (purely from the fever) that people had to convince me that a) I could not, in fact, fly and b) the girl playing pool was not The Bionic Woman.

6. Had an "amazing party" to go to. Friends were picking me up at 11. At 10:50 I dozed off and my mom told them to go on without me. Bitch.

5. Rather not talk about it.

4. Produced MTV New Year's Eve Live. Had to escort the police and bomb sniffing dogs through the studio hours before the show in response to a phoned in "threat." Gotta tell you, you don't give a fuck if Justin Timberlake is rockin' his body or not when you think your ass is gonna get blown to kingdom come as the clock strikes 12.

3. Rung in the New Year standing in some annoying kid's kitchen with a capacity crowd of 4. My best friend actually pretended to faint so I could "rush her to the hospital" aka IHOP. Nothing says NYE like a Rooty Tutty Fresh and Fruity...except maybe a Moons Over My Hammy.

2. Rather not talk about it.

1. I was the designated driver at a high school party. An drunk ex-girlfriend wished me a Happy New Year's Eve by grabbing my testicles in her closed fist and not releasing them until Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

So how I am I ringing in 2006? Getting trashed? Playing mailbox baseball? Doing donuts on the high school's baseball diamond?

It's 10:21 pm and I am sitting in bed watching the Godfather while my wife feeds our newborn - and you know what? There is no place I would rather be.

It took me a long time to get over the self-induced pressures of New Year's Eve. It is my least favorite holiday - crap it isn't even holiday. No one was born, no one died, no oil lasted longer and nothing historic was signed. I don't celebrate 9:59 am becoming 10:00am, I don't see why New Year's Eve is so special.

Tonight I officially became old - and ironically had a nearly perfect NYE. Friends of ours had a party - at the witching hour of...4pm. The adults had dinner, watched football (fucking Raiders) and drank while the kids beat the shit out of each other in the other room. I am sure we lost one or two good kids in there. It was a war zone.

We then counted down to that magical moment...7pm. All the kids gathered around with their noise makers and confetti poppers and went to town with the same passion a million drunk people in Times Square waited 12 hours in the saliva freezing cold to do.

Boring? Yes. Uneventful? Yes. But I haven't lost my keys, my testicles, my dignity or had to run through a bomb scare drill.

For once, a perfect New Year's Eve.

Have You Seen My Penis?

Have you? Just curious, cause I haven't seen it in about 2 months.

For some reason, I thought my wife being pregnant gave ME permission to eat anything I wanted. I have consulted a few experts, a few books, and apparently that is not the case. Go figure...

I was one of those kids that could eat anything he wanted and never gain a pound. From 8th grade to my Senior Year of High School I weighed 154 pounds. My mom used to say, "You must have a really fast metabolism." She was half right. I was so athletic (playing soccer 3-4 times a week etc.) that I burned everything off. Now, not so much hence my rapid decline towards Oompa Loompa like proportions.

I hit my heaviest THE LAST TIME MY WIFE was pregnant (see a pattern here?). I will never forget the moment I finally realized I was fat...

I had a co-worker who was morbidly obese. Like 350 - 400 pounds I would guess. Nice guy, but practically handicapped. He could hardly climb stairs etc. Any way, one day a beautiful actress (I think it was Uma Thurman) was on my show and later in the control room someone made a comment like, "Man, how would you like to be with that!" I said something under my breath like, "Who wouldn't."

And then my morbidly obese friend put his arm around me and said, "C'mon Adam. Girls like that don't go for guys like us. Us fat guys gotta stick together."

My face went white. I don't even remember going back to my office. I just remember one sentence repeating over and over in my brain...

"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."
"He thinks we are the same size..."

I went on a diet that day and 9 months later I had lost 60 pounds and fit into the same size jeans I wore in high school (except my new ones weren't acid washed).

So here we are a little over three years later and I am quickly climbing up there. I seriously doubt someone stole my penis. I have a hunch he is under there somewhere either crushed by the weight or too embarrassed to be seen with me. I can't blame him.

Combine the hibernating jimmy with my near-puking spell the other day and my freakin' "paralysis" a few weeks ago and the message is clear. I have to get in shape.

Why am I telling you all this? Cause if you see me eating something I shouldn't, slap the fucker right out of my hand. It's the only way I will get any sense knocked into me.

I would tell you to kick me in the balls, but I assume you'd want your shoe back.

Geek Alert

Long before the label somehow became "cool," I was a self-professed Geek.

I was into anything science fiction, anything super-hero related and for the first time I will admit in the darkest corner of my home office closet you will probably find a 20-sided die. Yes, I was a chaotic-lawful Paladin with a +5 shield and an impressive amount of hit points.

I say this like it is a shocker, but most of you who know me are thinking, "No shit. You're a geek. It's written across your entire genetic code."

But at least I was a well rounded geek. I had my gnome like friends who shunned sunlight, I had my borderline psychotic friends who played nothing but war games and built concentration camps for gypsy moth catepillars and I had my athletic friends who I played soccer, basketball and stickball with. I was the only geek that knew Cyclops' real name was Scott Summers AND could throw a curve ball. My Six Million Dollar Man poster was right next to my Thurman Munsen poster.

But I don't mean to sound like I am defending myself. I wave my Geek Flag high, especially since those bullies from school don't know where I live and it suddenly became hip to be a Geek. Plus, I actually got a girl to marry me, let alone let me touch her boobies.

Everyone has a dream - some kids want to walk on the moon, some want to play for the Yankees, some just want pubes - but every kid has a dream. I am 34 and one of mine is about to come true.

My friend Marc and I have written a comic book that will actually be published and available on newsstands, Amazon etc. It is called "Monster Isle" and it is a wise-ass, hopefully funny look at what life is really like on a South Pacific island inhabited by giant lobster creatures and 500 foot long killer worms.

For those not interested in the process, I probably lost you when I mentioned the 20-sided die, but for those with any interest, I thought I would tell you a little bit about producing a comic book.

First off, if you are like me and Marc, you completely under estimated the amount of work and sense of the craft needed to write one. Marc and I have written several screenplays so we naturally thought, "We've written 120 pages of dialogue, comic characters talk in little bubbles. How hard can this be?" How hard, very?

Forgive me for forgetting which famous writer said this, and forgive me again for butchering the quote, but here it goes...

"Dear Friend, I apologize for writing such a lengthy letter. I did not have time to write a shorter one."

That, to me, sums up comic book writing perfectly. It doesn't just mean you are writing less, it means you have less room for error. Every word in every short sentence in every tiny bubble has to contain information, charactoer reveals and propell the story forward. That my friend, is a craft.

Plus, in screenplays you deliberatly give no direction. A director wants to direct, not be told how to direct by a screenwriter. A good screenplay makes almost no mention of the camera or specific shots anywhere.

In a comic script however, you are simultaneously the writer and a story board artist. You have to describe every frame, every action, every page layout - unless you work in a big factory and already all speak the same shorthand. We created a very detailed guide, while leaving ourselves open to any input the eventual artist would have.

Luckily the script was received extremely well by the publisher/editor and required zero rewrites - which is amazing,

Through mutual friends, contacts and industry folk, we came across the artwork of Robert Atkins - an extremely talented artist who, for some unknow reason, is not as big as he should be.

The last few weeks have been really exciting. Robert has been doing character sketches based on our script. It has been really amazing to see people and creatures Marc and I made up out of thin air come to life. To those more experienced you may find that reaction and sense of wonder naive - and you know what? Fuck you - it's pretty fucking cool whether you are Adam No Name Freeman or George God Damned Lucas.



So, inbetween my usual obnoxious ramblings I will keep updating the progress of Monster Isle for those interested.

And for those fellow Geeks out there waiting for one of their dreams to come true - don't worry, those pubes are due any day now.

Pitching & Puking

Pitching a project to a network or studio is a fine art. It is an important Dog & Pony show that all good writers and producers have mastered. They have rehearsed over and over, practicing on everyone from the dog to the baby to the wife. They have carefully scheduled their "spontaneous" jokes as to appear witty and off the cuff. They have done some serious Googling about the people they are pitching so they can "just by chance" mention a ski trip to Teluride. "Oh really, you ski? What a small world!" Any edge you can get, anything you can tastefully do to stick in their minds after you walk out that door is key because, unfortunately, a good idea just ain't enough.

Like anyone, I have had good pitches and I have had bad pitches. I have had some where everyone is laughing and bottled water is squirting out of noses, I was being hailed as this great new find blah blah blah. Doesn't always mean they bought the idea, but at least they know I give good meeting and will have me back the next time.

My bad pitches have been bad. Like that dream where you show up at your high school naked. Yeah, that bad. I always go in with the same upbeat tone so usually if a meeting is taking a header it's because the Exec wants it to go that way. They are your audience. Any audience can laugh or throw tomatoes at will. Some just like to throw tomatoes.

One thing I have always found frustrating is when you are in the middle of a pitch - you are really hitting your stride - and something interrupts you. Maybe their assistant pokes their head in for a quick answer on something. Maybe it's a phone call they "just have to take" or maybe the Exec has fallen asleep. Whatever the reason, it is hard to get the room back up to the energy level you were building towards. You have to call an audible and adjust.

I have had pitches interrupted for almost every reason on the planet - but today was something new.

My partner David and I had a pitch at a cable TV network. Which one is not important. We had several ideas to throw at them and had worked out in detail who would do what, who would chime in where etc.

David and the Exec had met before so he took lead. They swapped stories about this person and that and so on. Then we started to pitch out our first project. The Exec was laughing, she was totally into it - we had her. Until...

"WHHHOOOOOOOOOP!" "WHHHOOOOOOOOOP" "WHHHOOOOOOP!"

"Are we being attacked?" I thought.
The Exec frowned, "Guys, I am so sorry. We're having a fire drill. C'mon, stick with me."

So we joined the Exec and walked down 12 flights of stairs to the street where the rest of the network was milling about. Those designated as "Jr. Fire Marshalls" or whatever were taking roll call. And we just kind of stood there.

Some other Execs gathered around and after some brief introductions some awkward industry talk ensued.

"So, why did that Seacrest show get cancelled?"
"Did you ever work with_________. What an asshole."
"Man, did you see _____ last night? That show sucked." "It pulled a good number, though." "I know, I wish I'd have thought of that..."

Then the fire drill was over. Everyone started shuffling back towards the building. No surprise, the elevators got incredibly backed up by AN ENTIRE NETWORK trying to squeeze into the little 8x8 boxes. The Exec suggested we take the stairs.

The stairs? SURE! NO PROBLEM!

12 flights doesn't seem like a lot. I just looked at it as I typed it and said out loud, "It doesn't seem like a lot."

Fuck you. It's a lot.

Oh, I was fine by the 3rd floor, hell I was doing pretty well by the 6th floor. But somewhere around 9 it hit me. This is exactly what I chided those fuckers on "The Biggest Loser" for bitching about. One them actually puked. Pussy. "It's some lousy stairs, suck it up!"

Hell no. My legs started shaking, my thighs were burning, my breathing was getting heavier and heavier. I couldn't even stop because I had a long line of employees behind me all moving like Autobots.

By the time we got to 12 I was done, toast. I limped behind the Exec back to their office. Once inside, I literally laid down on the floor. I did this because A) it played really funny and got a laugh and B) I really needed to lay down on the fucking floor.

Ah, but this isn't the end. We were in the middle of the pitch. That interrupted pitch that was going so well you just have jump right back in at the same momentum. Yeah, right.

David continued with the pitch. I didn't chime in at the appropriate time because I was trying to stop from puking in my mouth. On top of that, I was sweating profusely.

Now, those who know me know I shave my head. Sure, it makes me simply irresistible to that select number of the female population that digs chunky bald guys, but it also means that I have removed a major line of defense vs. sweat. Basically all I have to protect myself is my eyebrows - and if those malfunction I will probably drown.

So now I trying not to puke and drown at the same time. I know I am up next.

The room turns it's attention to me. Gulp.

Let's just say it was not best pitch.

But I didn't puke...and got to take the elevator back down.

Ella & Sadie

Deiter's House

I have written before about how I am completely out numbered in my own house. Three women vs. one male...make that three Catholic women vs. one Jewish male.

I am what I consider "culturally Jewish." Although I am a devout athiest, I do feel a connection to the culture.

I do not know:
- the history of the religion
- any of it's teachings
- one word of Hebrew
- what year it is in the Jewish calendar
- one word of the bible - either testament
- when any holidays fall, let alone what they mean.

I do know:
- milk with spaghetti is fucking gross
- the ONLY bread is rye bread
- few things beat good deli
- guilt
- neurosis
- every Woody Allen movie
- every Mel Brooks movie
- where the Catskill Mountains are
- how to make a good Egg Cream
- the only condiment that goes on turkey is Russian dressing

So, am I Jewish? You bet your foreskin I am. Besides, both of my parents are from the Jewish Holy Land...Flatbush, Brooklyn so there's that.

Judiasm is like my little brother. I'll make fun of him, I'll abuse him, embarrass him and give him a wedgie - but if someone else fucks with my little brother you have a problem.

When my wife and I dated we had the inevitable "kids" conversation. We both agreed we would raise our kids non-denominational. Religion wasn't present in our day to day life and we didn't miss it. Done, settled, agreed.

So, Monday night I am driving my family to our local Catholic School so Ella can perform in her first ever Christmas Pagaent when she starts in about Deiter's House. All week she has wanted to go to Deiter's House. When can we go to Deiter's House. There is no Deiter in her class? Deiter isn't a Wiggle, who the hell is Deiter?

Just to show you how stupid my wife thinks I am, she constantly tells me how the school is not "really religious." Of course. Every school has portraits of Pope John Paul II in the hallways. My wife promised me there wasn't "really any religious training in the class." Sure. You want to know why she thinks I am stupid? Cause I am. I fucking believed her. "What? Step into that shower with 1,000 other Jews? To freshen up? And then dry off in that oven? Ok sure, if you say so...." I am pretty sure gullable is a Yiddish word.

So we are pulling into the Church parking lot and Ella is raving about Deiter's House. This is how the conversation goes...

Ella: "I wan to go to Deiter's Hass."
Us: "Deiter's House?"
Ella: "No, Deiter's House."
Us: "Who is Deiter?"
Ella: "Deiter!"
Us: "Is he in your class?"
Ella: "No, Deiter's House."
Us: "Ella, we don't understand."
Ella: "Deiter's House. Jeiter's House?"
Us: "Jeiter's House? Derek Jeiter's House?"
Ella: "No, Jeez us house?"
Adam: "What the fuck did she just say?"
Krissy: "C'mon, everyone, let's go..."
Ella: "Jeezus House!"
Adam: "Did she just say Jesus' House?"
Krissy: "I don't know, I can't understand her."

(sound of Adam slamming his head into the steering wheel repeatedly)

Ella: "Look! It's Jesus' House! Jesus' House!"

So we went to the show, the kids sang carols, and thanked the Lord.

Then I took Ella home, made her watch Annie Hall, force fed her hot pastrami and seltzer and listened to Mel Brook's and Carl Reiner's "2000 Year Old Man" album.

Oy veh.

You Wouldn't Believe It If I Told You...

Previously, I briefly touched on how "surreal" Sadie's birthday was. I know my West Coast friends have taken great pleasure in making sure everyone this side of the Grand Canyon knows, so here is the East Coast feed - direct from the source. I can laugh about it now that a week has gone by.

Krissy and I scheduled a C-Section for Dec. 12th. I could go on about how odd it is that you "schedule" your child's birthday; it all seems a little "Gattica" to me but I digress...

We had a great Thanksgiving with our MTV friends Jenn and Joe and my buddy and buisness partner David and his family. With a child about to fall out of her womb, my superwoman wife still managed to cook an amazing dinner (with Jenn's help). The holiday weekend was off to a good start.

Friday, completely unrealted to Krissy's cooking, Ella came down with a massive stomach virus. Puking every half hour, poor thing. It's been going around and I guess it was Ella's turn.

By Saturday morning Ella was feeling much better...but Krissy wasn't. Now she had the bug and was puking every couple of minutes. While I do not wish this on anyone, I admittedly didn't give Krissy as much sympathy as she deserved. Maybe it is our fundemental view on vomiting:

My wife could practically vomit on cue. Everything makes her nauseous - the car, certain foods, watching Fear Factor - you name it. Add two bouts of 6 month+ morning sickness on top if and she handles throwing up like a pro. She'll excuse herself, I'll hear her cough in the bathroom, she'll return and I'll ask if she's ok. "Oh fine. I just threw up."

WHAT????!!!!

This is where we differ. For me puking is the most vile, violent, horrible thing that can happen to you. That feeling creeps up on me, I break into a cold sweat, every single muscle in my body locks, and my stomach turns into a supersoaker. For the moment while I am puking it's like all time stops. I have no control over my body and I make one of the most violent, disgusting roars this side of Godzilla. I have been known to rip sinks out of dorm room bathrooms, grind grooves of my finger nails into toilet seats - it's not a pretty sight.

All Saturday night, Krissy is getting up and puking and it was horrible. Mainly because it was really disrupting all of the TiVO that I had to catch up on. I had to pause it every time she sprinted for the bathroom...cause I'm considerate.

About 3am I felt it. I woke to the sound her in the bathroom and it started to make me ill. I have a strong stomach. This never happens. I think that is why vomiting is so horrible to me - I can count the number of times I've thrown up on one hand, maybe two. So now I have the creeping feeling...and its getting worse.

At 4am I joined the club and Krissy and I had some nice together time vomiting into various recepticles around the house. We dozed off somewhere around 6:30 and were woken up by Ella. She was feeling like a champ by now and wanted to play. She wanted to watch tv. She wanted cereal. She wanted anything but to watch mommy and daddy lay in bed with garbage cans next to them.

All this time Krissy had cramps. She assumed it was from all the puking, but now she was getting concerned. We also came to realization that neither of us could physically sit up let alone get out of bed and take care of Ella. Krissy called her sister Robin to beg and plead and see she could watch Ella for the day. Luckily Robin felt like playing hookie and said she would help us out.

While we waited for Robin and her fiance Robert to save us, we passed the time hurling and trying to get Ella to stop jumping up and down on the bed. Krissy's cramps got worse and it dawned on her - can I be in labor? When Ella was born Krissy actually got the epidural before she even conceived, so labor pains are new to her.

Krissy called the doctor. They said go to the hospital. Crap. We can't stand let along drive. Ok, we thought, we'll have Robin and Robert drive us to the hospital. It's probably a false alarm and we can return to our beds and they can take Ella for a few months.

Krissy manages to stand upright. Luckily, and even though this is two weeks ahead of schedule, her bag is already packed. Her clothes are laid out - in fact I think all she had to do was step into them.

Meanwhile I made my way to the bathroom to see if I could physically turn myself inside out. The wave came, the cold sweat broke out all over, but nothing happened. Then I started to feel pins and needles in my feet and fingers. This had been happening during the last few hurls so I wasn't alarmed. Suddenly they got worse, much worse. Picture your leg being as asleep as it could be. Numb. Then the pins and needles start and you can't even walk on it. Got it? Multiply that by a hundred. And it was spreading - up my legs, up my arms, across my chest.

This is the unbelievable part. Within seconds I was paralyzed. I swear to God. I could not even move my jaw to talk. I had no idea what was happening to me.

I guess I managed to make some sound because Krissy ran into the bathroom. When I saw her reaction - that's when I got scared. Krissy's father was a stroke victim, so she is very atune to the symptoms. I guess I was displaying all of them.

I could register what she was saying but I couldn't answer her. All I could do was blink. She grabbed the phone and called 911. It wasn't until I heard her describing my condition to the operator that it really hit me. My face was drooping. All my joints were locked. My hands had shrunk into those "claws" cerebral palsy patients have.

I instantly thought of Ella. I did not want her seeing my like this. God forbid this was my time, I did not want this sight to be the image burned into her brain. It practically guaranteed she would become a stripper or a serial killer. While Krissy kept Ella away and stayed on the phone with 911.

I also came to realization that my wife was having a baby and I was completely upstaging her.

You know when you hear a siren in the distance? It starts real faint, gets a little louder, and then grows faint again? It's entirely different when you hear sirens and YOU KNOW THEIR FINAL DESTINATION IS YOUR HOUSE. It doesn't grow faint. It gets louder...and louder...and louder and before long you are in your underwear, paralyzed, with 9 firemen (and firewomen) staring at you. Nice. I used to watch Cops and always think, "Why don't they ever have a shirt on when the police come?" Now I know.

The paramedics lifted me onto my bed where I began to convulse with more cramps. I was also severely worried that Krissy was going to shit her pants when she saw the dirt they were tracking through the house.

For the next couple of minutes I only remember two sounds. A paramedic saying, "You're going to be ok," and the distant voice of Ella telling everyone, "My daddy's in there naked!"

Now Robin and Robert show up - just in time. They get Ella calmed down and manage to stop Krissy from asking the firemen to kindly remove their shows. At least the thought of my having a stroke completely drove the nasuea from her body. She became Wonder Woman.

Krissy threw sweat pants and a shirt on me and the paramedics strapped me to a stair chair. This is a special chair designed to get people down the steps. There are 9 firemen standing around. 7 beef cake calendar looking guys. One skinny guy and one petite woman. I understand being equal in the work place. I understand feminism, but fuck it - do the wimp and the chick have to be the ones to carry me? This girl looks like her left eye is about to pop out of her skull she is straining so bad...

They ask me what hospital I want to go to - West Hills or Tarzana. Well, I want to go to Cedars in L.A. cause that's where my wife and fetus are going. No dice. They can only take me to those two hospitals. You've got to be fucking kidding me.

It is decided that Robin will take Krissy and Ella to Cedars and Robert will follow the ambulance to West Hills. Just like in the movies they transer me to a stretcher and wheel me outside. All my neighbors are on their lawns looking. They think Krissy's water must have broke and I am having an anxiety attack.

The petite girl gets in the ambulance with me and there I am. Laying in the exact same position Hannibal Lecter was when he sat up and took that guy's face off of his head. The exact same position I have seen in a million movies. I step outside myself and watch the scene. This movie sucks.

By now I am starting to get feeling back in my body but the rocking of the ambulance is making me really ill. At this point we still thought Krissy's cramps was a false alarm so I am not too concerned. I figure she will be back home before I will.

I get wheeled into the emergency room. I could go into detail but just picture a montage of nurses not finding a vein and sticking me several times, some puking, some horrible show on ESPN, an IV, and a male nurse that keeps begging me to pee.

Somewhere into hour three Robert tells me they are wheeling Krissy into the delivery room to have the baby. You've got to be kidding me. Some how they get Krissy on the phone on the wall behind me and I assure her I am going to be ok. Robin is going to play daddy this time and scrub in.

So I sit, watching ESPN, knowing that across town my wife is about to undergo this monumental event and I am going to miss it all. That's right, she is having a baby but it's all about me.

Now, what I have not mentioned so far are our friends David and Jane (from Thanksgiving). Krissy and Jane share the same doctor...and Jane has a scheduled C-Section...oh...um...now. Like the juggler on Carson that never makes it to air, Jane get's bumped so they can rush Krissy in. I have turned off Three's Company because more plausible situations than this seemed ridiculous.

I was released later that day and my paralysis was attributed to severe dehydration and no C02 in my body from dry heaving and puking so much. I also looked like a heroin junkie from all the places the nurses tried to insert an IV and failed.

Robert drives me to Cedars and I am told Krissy is still in recovery and will be brought to her room shortly. I look down the hall and see David standing at the nursery window. I walk down and there is beautiful Sadie Jane...laying next to the dashing Max Hudson Armour. Saide and Max - they sound like an old Jewish couple already. I bet they kick ass at Marjong.

Krissy and I were reunited and she looked amazing. She looked like she climbed a flight of stairs, not had her stomach slit open, organs moved aside, baby ripped out and skin stapled back together. That's my wife.

And that was what I meant when I said the day was surreal. You couldn't print it if it wasn't true.